


We Burn Gray

by Batsymomma11



Series: Blark Files [6]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, SuperBat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-19 17:03:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17005632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: "That was the first time it happened. The first time Clark realized that tiny flicker of something warm and uncomfortable flaring in his middle was attraction. And not the safe kind."Clark sees Bruce in another light after years of friendship and is terrified of losing everything because of it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own DC or its characters. I do own this story. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and enjoy!

                The first time it happened Clark was sitting on a bench along the gym wall beside Oliver, chugging down water, and watching Bruce go at it with Barry. Bruce was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to teach Barry how to fight. To teach him more than just defensive moves, but offensive ones that would complement his smaller, leaner build.

                Clark had seen Bruce train almost every member of the League, at one time or another. He wasn’t just a good instructor, he was an exemplary one. Bruce could find weaknesses, manipulate them, and then make them strengths. He could train the untrainable.

                Clark was a testament to that. He remembered well, the weeks he spent being molded by Bruce and quietly re-structured, so he could use more than his brawn to win a fight. Occasionally, he and Bruce still fought on the mats, just to keep his training up to snuff. It never ceased to amaze Clark how utterly focused and lethal Bruce could be. How alien his strength and agility were in comparison to others. He didn’t look human when he was fighting like this, he looked otherworldly.

                Deadly.  

                Bruce was moving like liquid lightning, dancing around Barry with elegant twists and punches, feigned jabs and kicks. All the while, he was quietly instructing Barry, ordering him to hit back or dodge fire. Guiding him to respond properly. Barry was a quick learner, but he looked perilously slow in comparison to Bruce. Still, there was no one more patient than Bruce when it came to instruction like this.

                If anyone could improve Barry’s technique, it was Bruce.

                “Faster, Barry. You’ve got this. Keep moving. Don’t stand still.”

                “I’m trying.”

                Bruce dodged a hit, ducked and then grappled Barry to the floor. In less than a breath, Barry was pinned and then frantically tapping out as his face went purple.

                “God, Bruce, give the kid a break.”

                Oliver, the bleeding heart. For everyone else _but_ Bruce. The two of them clashed heads more than not. They fought almost as much as Hal and Bruce did.  

                Bruce let Barry up then offered a hand to help him stand. Barry accepted the help gratefully and the two moved towards Clark and Oliver where a table with water was ready.

                Barry started chattering immediately about how he thought he was improving, but Bruce was busy gulping down water. He was slicked with sweat, glistening from head to toe, and with his head tipped back to drink, it was easy to see Bruce’s throat working. It was easy to see the beads of sweat track down his face and slip into his t-shirt. It was easy to see how Bruce’s pulse was still a fast tick in the hollow of his throat, the thin skin of his wrists.

                Clark went so still, he stopped breathing. He was fairly certain his heart stopped too, however briefly.

                That was the first time it happened. The first time Clark realized that tiny flicker of something warm and uncomfortable flaring in his middle was attraction. And not the safe kind.

                He’d quickly looked away, fixed his eyes on his sneakers, on the one shoe lace that he needed to retie because it was loose. When Bruce came and sat heavily beside him, Clark had to hold his breath to control the urge to start babbling. Or lean in and smell what Bruce might smell like with all that sweat clinging to his skin. He felt naked. Awkward and exposed, like all those feelings and thoughts he’d just had were printed on a sign over his head.

                Any second, the jig would up, and everyone would start pointing and laughing. With Bruce as the leader.  

                “You alright?” Bruce asked.

                Clark nodded, capping his water bottle, then standing. He was far too aware of how badly his hands were shaking and his knees wobbling. He prayed to God that Bruce hadn’t taken notice. “Oh yeah, just preoccupied. I’ve got a lot to get done. Things to do. It’s that season, ya know? Christmas is always so busy.”

                Bruce arched a brow, swiping absently at his forehead. His cheeks were ruddy from the exercise. He looked—good. Really good.

                “Don’t give me that look.”

                “What look?”

                Clark snorted, “The disbelieving one. The one that says you don’t believe I’ve got stuff to do and things to take care. Some of us don’t have butlers.”

                “Right.”

                Clark rolled his eyes and immediately felt more at ease when he was able to take a few steps further away. Whatever he’d felt before, it was fading. Thank God. “See you next week.”

                Bruce frowned, “You aren’t coming for dinner on Friday? I thought you told Dick you were.”

                “Oh, yes, I forgot. Yeah, I’ll be there.”

                “Alright,” Bruce was still frowning, looking at Clark like his hair was standing on end.

                Clark plastered on a smile, waved at Barry and Oliver, then left the gym.

                He put the little incident out of his head. It didn’t mean anything. And even if it did, it didn’t _have_ to mean anything. Clark wouldn’t let it mean anything.  

 

                The next time it happened was the very next time Clark saw Bruce. And it hit him like a ton of bricks. Probably because he’d stupidly told himself it would never happen again. The attraction he’d felt towards Bruce had been adrenaline-based and like temporary insanity, had just been a crazy fluke. It wasn’t a surprise that he was attracted to men, it had happened before, but his best friend? No, that had just been little hiccup. A tiny thing.

                Easily moved past.  

                So, Friday night, Clark was standing in the kitchen, stuffing his face with Alfred’s sugar cookies while hunched over the sink. Dick and Jason had left some time ago and Tim and Damian were playing Assassin’s Creed in the family room. He and Bruce had gone to the kitchen to grab junk food for their traditional monthly movie night. It was Bruce’s turn to pick and he’d settled on Interstellar. Clark had already seen it, but that hardly mattered.

                Bruce would probably figure everything out in the first ten minutes of the film like he did every other time.

                It was when Bruce leaned over his back to turn on the sink and fill up a glass of water. Warmth flooded Clark’s middle at the contact. Bruce’s skin smelled like it was edible. Like if he clutched Bruce’s nape and forced his head back, that throat would taste even better than the cookie he’d been demolishing. Clark sucked in a startled breath of air and promptly started choking on a piece of his cookie.

                Bruce reacted immediately, pounding the heel of his hand between Clark’s shoulder blades. Eyes watering, throat spasming, Clark swallowed, gulped down air greedily then finally turned to thank Bruce and then it—it got worse. This time it was so much worse.

                Bruce was close, looking him over, his eyes intense and clinical, assessing. There was nothing about them that should have caused the slow clutch and roll in Clark’s chest. But they did. Clark tried to back up a step, but he hit the kitchen counter instead and then felt heat rush up his neck and flood his cheeks as Bruce’s brows furrowed deeper in worry. He couldn’t stop the thoughts rushing through his head right alongside the panic.

                “Give it a minute,” Bruce said softly, reaching for the glass of water he’d stopped filling, “Here. Drink it.”

                Clark almost refused, because Bruce’s mouth had touched the same glass not five minutes ago. And Clark’s face was on fire because he couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d wanted to taste Bruce’s throat. How he’d come terribly close to just grabbing Bruce to sample him.

                He drank the water. He did his best not to think about it being Bruce’s glass of water. Or that Bruce would probably drink out of the same glass again and have no problem with it. The incident in the kitchen passed without notice. Bruce and Clark settled in the study to watch their movie.

                Clark sat in the love seat, carefully separate from Bruce. It earned him a strange look from Bruce, who looked a little awkward sitting on the sofa all by himself, but it was needed. He needed to get things in perspective. He needed to figure out what was happening and control it. Because Bruce was the smartest man he knew and if Clark wasn’t careful, Bruce was going to find out.

                And then their friendship, the closest one he’d ever had, the one he depended upon and treasured more than anything, would be ruined.

                Clark couldn’t have that.

 

                When it happened again, Clark actually almost kissed him.

                Bruce had asked for help on a case. He sometimes did. It wasn’t often, but when it happened, Clark always came. He always answered.

                Clark had shown up after work and was still in his civvies. Bruce was wearing something he’d wear to the office—a collared shirt, two buttons undone, black slacks and dress shoes. He’d probably had on a tie too and had removed it at some point. The top two buttons being undone was a distraction. A few inches of skin had never looked more alluring. It should have been Clark’s first warning that it was getting worse. That his thoughts where Bruce was concerned had turned down a path he couldn’t undo.

                So, he wasn’t prepared for the swift kick to the stomach when Bruce was leaning over a microscope, his readers pushed up on his forehead, drumming his fingers on the lab’s table. He wasn’t prepared when Bruce asked him over to take a look and he was assaulted with all the smells that were Bruce. His cologne, something expensive—probably Gucci or Armani. The silk of his clothes and the very faint scent of his sweat. Things that were Bruce. Things that should have been harmless and normal to Clark’s senses after so many years of being exposed to them. But that wasn’t the case at all. Because Clark felt bombarded by the smells.

                And hungry. God, the sudden flare of hunger that had nothing to do with food made his heart rush up into his throat and his hands clumsy when he leaned over and tried to at least pretend like he was looking at what Bruce wanted him to look at. But when he looked back up and Bruce was watching him, waiting for his assessment, Clark got lost. He lost what he was going to say. He lost what he was supposed to be or what Bruce was to him.

                He lost everything. Except that hunger. And the almost overpowering desire to lean over, close the narrow gap between them and press his mouth to Bruce’s. To taste and to take.  

                It was terrifying.

                “Clark?” Bruce asked, blinking rapidly, like he was confused. Like he couldn’t tell that Clark was losing his fucking mind. “You OK?”

                “Yes,” Clark answered. _No! Everything is wrong. I shouldn’t want you like this. I CAN’T want you like this. Oh God._

                “Well,” Bruce shifted, looking away for a moment, “What did you see?”

                “What did I see?”

                Bruce’s eyes flitted back to Clark’s. Held. “Yes. On the slide? I wanted your opinion. Your vision is better than mine.”

                Clark swallowed, and it felt like he was swallowing a rock. Maybe it was actually his heart. No, that was throbbing in his ears and throat. He couldn’t think. God, he needed to think and be careful. He was going to out himself if he wasn’t careful. “You know—” he rubbed his forehead, “I’m not—I’m not feeling very well. I think I’m getting sick. I’m going to call it a night.”

                “You’re serious?”

                “Yeah, I’m sorry Bruce.”

                “Clark,” Bruce reached out, tried to stop Clark but managed only a brush of fingertips on Clark’s forearm. It still felt like being licked by electricity. It still felt like Clark was going to implode. “What’s going on?”

                “Nothing. I’m really not feeling well. That’s all,” Clark offered a lopsided smile, “Honest.”

                Bruce’s expression was thoughtful. On the verge of worried again. “Alright. You’ll call and tell me when you feel better?”

                “Sure. Maybe a text.”

                Bruce nodded, stuffing both hands in his pockets, “That works.”

                Clark left Bruce standing in the cave. He knew there were questions and that Bruce was already wondering what was going on. If there was something wrong with Clark. He’d be right. There was something very wrong with Clark.  

 

 

                _Feeling better already. Thanks for worrying._

Bruce frowned down at his phone, at the text message Clark had sent and then shot back with one of his own.

                **_What do you think caused it?_**

**** _I don’t know. Maybe something from off-world? I’ll just get some sleep._

_**Good.**_ Bruce paused, considering, **_And fluids._**

**** _;) Sure thing, Dr. Wayne._

Bruce snorted, put down his phone then scrubbed both hands over his face. Clark had been acting off for weeks and he was starting to be concerned. At first, he’d thought maybe it was something he’d done wrong to upset Clark. It wouldn’t have been the first time Clark didn’t want to cause trouble so he avoided confronting him directly about something bothering him. But then as time had gone on, it was more apparent that Clark was having some sort of physical reaction. Flushed, increased respiration, likely increased heart rate, and slightly dramatized responses to physical nearness or contact. Almost as if he was overstimulated by it. Which could mean Clark had been keeping being in pain to himself. He’d been cataloging the symptoms for the last two weeks. Perhaps it was time to run a few diagnostic tests to be sure nothing serious was going on?

                Bruce didn’t want to micromanage Clark, but he was worried about him. Clark wasn’t always the greatest at taking care of himself when the time called for it. He tended to worry about everyone else first, at the detriment of his own health. Bruce should know, he was just as guilty.

                Still, perhaps he should bring something over? A soup or something?

                Bruce considered the idea briefly, then shook his head. It was better to let Clark sleep and get the rest he so obviously needed. He’d check in again in a couple of days. And if Clark was still acting off, then he’d insist on the testing.

 

                Bruce called Clark three days later and got his voicemail.

                He called the Planet and was told that Clark had called out sick for the rest of the week. He’d not been at work either. Lois told him that Clark sounded miserable over the phone. Which only managed to amp up Bruce’s worry. With Clark not even showing up to work, his condition must have deteriorated since he’d last spoken to him. Clark not answering his phone was also a bit of a concern.

                Decided on the next course of action, Bruce asked Alfred to make up a soup for Clark. He packed up a couple films, a field kit for collecting samples for the testing he wanted to perform and begged off another plate of cookies. Alfred only smirked when he asked for them. They all knew how sweet Clark’s sweet tooth could be. Bruce figured it could only soften Clark towards the idea of the testing.

                Bruce got to Clark’s apartment late in the afternoon, when the sun was clinging to the skyline and everything was cast in amber tones. He knocked once, waited, then used his key. Clark had offered him one after a couple years of breaking and entering. It was a lot easier to get in with the key than it would have been to get in through a window with the soup and bags he was carrying.

                Bruce dropped everything off on the counter, bypassed the empty living room then headed straight down the tiny hall to Clark’s bedroom.

                Clark was lying on his side, his back to the door, blanket tugged up under his chin. He didn’t even move when Bruce pushed the door further open and it bumped into the wall.

                “What are you doing here?”

                Bruce frowned at the lump of bedding that was Clark, “You didn’t answer your phone.”

                “I don’t feel well.”

                “I was worried.”

                “You shouldn’t be. Everything is fine. It’s just a little stomach bug or something.”

                Bruce strode across the room to the opposite side of the bed and peered down at Clark. Clark looked worse up close. Dark circles under his eyes, pale skin, hair a nest of knots on top of his head. He didn’t look like he’d left his bed since he’d gotten there.

                The longer Bruce stared, the more noticeable that flush he’d been noticing was. Bruce almost reached forward to place the back of his hand over Clark’s forehead to check for a fever.

                “You don’t get sick Clark. Not unless it’s something big. Let me help you.”

                “It’s not—” Clark’s eyes closed, and he bit his lip, “It’s not what you’re thinking. It’s not something you can fix. Just—just go. Please Bruce.”

                “Go?”

                Bruce could count on one hand the amount of times Clark had turned down help from him. In fact, it had been so long, Bruce was feeling a little—alarmed. Shocked, maybe too. He blinked down at Clark, then shifted his weight.

                “I brought soup from Alfred.  A couple of movies.”

                “Bruce—”

                “And my kit. I can get samples. Very quickly. Just to be certain it’s not something bigger we might be dealing with.”

                “Bruce—”

                “Clark please, it won’t take long and then we can have peace of mind—”

                “Bruce!” Clark snapped, anger now lancing his tone as he sat up and the comforter pooled around his waist. He was wearing an oversize black t-shirt, with a gaping neckline and it somehow had the ability to make him look small. Vulnerable. Bruce didn’t like it. “Stop. I already told you, you can’t help me. It’ll be fine. I want you to go.”

                Bruce couldn’t make his feet move. So, he just stood stalk-stiff for a solid minute, trying to force himself to leave at the same time as understand why Clark was so upset with him. Because it was obvious the man was unhappy. It was obvious that whatever was going on, had to do with him.

                “Clark,” Bruce struggled to get the words out, suddenly feeling like his stomach was cramping, “Have I done something? Are you upset with me?”

                Clark was so silent in response that Bruce looked up and wished that he hadn’t. Deny it or not, the answer was obvious.

                “No.”

                “No?” Bruce tried, his voice coming out a little gruff. With a little too much feeling leaking in, “Then why can’t I help you? Why aren’t you talking to me?”

                “That isn’t—God, Bruce,” Clark shook his head, “I can’t talk about this with you, because I’m not ready, alright? It’s nothing life threatening. It’s nothing you did. I just need a minute. Or a few more days.”

                Bruce nodded. But he didn’t understand. He didn’t understand at all. And that made the cramping in his stomach feel like he was going to be sick. And he didn’t understand that either.

                “OK. You want space. I get it.” He didn’t.

                Clark’s eyes, denim blue, found his. “Yeah. Just a little bit Bruce. Just—just for now.”

                Bruce cleared his throat, “Well, the soup is still good. And I’ll leave the movies.”

                “Thank you.”

                “You’re welcome.”

                Bruce forced his feet to move then. It felt like walking through molasses. It felt worse turning his back on Clark and then walking down the hall to leave. He kept thinking Clark would ask him back and they’d talk about what was bothering him. They’d talk it through and everything would go back to normal. They’d be fine.

                But Clark didn’t call him back. And Bruce was left feeling like something had gone terribly wrong between them.   


	2. Chapter 2

               Clark got out of bed.

                He went to work. He wrote articles that Perry crooned over. Lois even grudgingly said it was ‘great work’, which was high praise from someone like her. They both knew she was the better writer. But it meant a lot to Clark, just the same.

                He showed up to the bi-weekly JLA meetings and sat calmly through them with a notebook and pen in hand. He took notes, kept his eyes on his own paper, and studiously ignored the looks Bruce gave him.

                He wasn’t outright ignoring Bruce. No, that would be too obvious and detrimental to the friendship he was desperately trying to salvage. Clark was more like—giving them a much needed breath of fresh air. Instead of coming over to the manor every week like clockwork, he stayed home in front of his own dinky television and ate popcorn to the strains of a PBS special on baboons. Clark answered Bruce’s text messages with smiley faces and optimistic punctuation. If he dared to answer the phone, he was careful to keep his voice light and their conversations brief.

                They spoke of the weather, of their jobs, and the JLA. If Bruce hummed a few questions about how Clark was feeling, if his health had improved? Clark lied softly, doing his best not to come across rude when he shut the questioning down. Bruce let him. But Bruce was no fool and his investigator’s intuition had already been triggered. Bruce wanted answers.

                Clark wasn’t able to give them. So they remained in a polite little stalemate that had both men chomping at the bit to break out into a fight at the drop of a hat.

                Needless to say, things felt strained.

                But it wasn’t all bad and it would get better with time. Clark was certain of that. How could it not? He was literally doing everything in his power to control and thus destroy the dangerous shift in the soil beneath their friendship. Bruce would respect that, if he was aware. As it was though, Bruce’s brooding had reached an all new level.

                In between the cryptic text messages and the slightly guilt-trippy phone calls, Bruce had started to shrink back into himself and Clark physically and emotionally _felt_ it. It was not a good feeling. In fact, it felt an awful lot like trying to sever the blood supply to a perfectly good limb whilst watching from the sidelines.

                Doing nothing had never felt so wrong. Or debilitating.

                A month into the self-imposed isolation Clark had been constructing, Bruce asked him over for dinner. They hadn’t had dinner since the night Clark had choked on a sugar cookie over the kitchen sink. There was absolutely no reason not to go and it felt like a test, which made him feel pressured to say yes.

                Clark questioned his judgement when he didn’t immediately say no. He’d only been working on distancing himself for a month. Even thinking about being alone with Bruce in a comfortable setting in civvies in front of a movie or sharing a meal had Clark sweating. Because he wanted it too much. He wanted to see Bruce so badly it felt like he’d been starving himself and was a trembling emaciated creature, desperate for nutrients that had been denied for too long.  

                Bruce had been stripped down to nutrients and Clark _needed_ to see him. It was what he told himself when he texted back and said he’d come. It was what he kept telling himself when he chose his clothes a little more carefully then he aught to have, when he shaved, brushed his teeth and then stared for far too long at himself in the mirror. He’d never second-guessed a polo so much in his life. In the end, he’d gone with a plaid and jeans, because it was the safest option. The one that said, ‘I’m fine. Everything is fine.’  

                During his flight to Wayne manor, Clark argued with himself that he’d gained better self-control. That a month apart had given him better perspective. He could handle whatever hormonal urges he might come across and easily quash them. He was in control of his feelings and not the other way around.

                Bruce opening the door was like being splashed with a cold bucket of reality.

                He was wearing a Christmas sweater from Clark’s mother and it was a little big and a lot loud, with jeans and bright red socks. It was about as holiday as Bruce ever allowed. And even then, he’d only ever let himself be seen like this in front of Clark. He looked soft and domestic, far too easy on the eyes when he looked like that. Bruce’s hair was a little mussed too, something that made Clark want to reach out and comb it off his forehead. Clark’s hands immediately went into fists to prevent any surprises from happening.

                Jesus Christ. Nothing had changed. Nothing. 

               Bruce offered him a half-smile, then opened the door wider to let Clark in. And Clark slipped past Bruce painfully aware of his heart bounding in his rib cage. His feelings hadn’t changed. In fact, they might have worsened. They’d been tempered with distance and had grown knife-sharp.

                If Bruce noticed, he hid it well.

                “I made chicken parmesan.”

                “Yum.”

                Bruce cast a look over his shoulder as Clark followed him into the kitchen. “Alfred made a cheesecake too. New York style.”

                Clark smiled, because it was just like Alfred do something like that, knowing full-well Clark would be coming over. Clark loved a good cheese cake and Alfred’s were better than most.

                “He spoils me.”

                Bruce snorted, “He spoils everyone. I thought we might eat in the family room while we watch some of the game. Sound good to you?”

                “Uh,” Clark glanced at the kitchen counter where Bruce had already served up a couple of plates. There were two beers that looked fresh from the fridge too. “Yeah. Sounds great actually.”

                It was just the sort of thing Clark needed to help him relax. He liked football, always had. Watching the game, doing something absolutely normal would help to settle all the nerves bundled into angry knots in his chest. They didn’t even need to talk much.

                Taking his own beer and plate, Clark happily settled beside Bruce on the couch and even managed to eat without getting distracted by Bruce’s little growls of annoyance when the ref made a call he didn’t particularly care for. At half-time, Clark was pleasantly full, reclining in his own pocket of the couch and nursing his third beer. He hadn’t been this relaxed in—a month.

                God, he’d missed Bruce.

                The ease with which they rotated and moved around each other was unparalleled. He’d never found that with anyone else, man or woman, romantically or platonically. Not having had access to Bruce for the last month, he’d forgotten how good it could feel to let himself go completely. To be understood and not have to watch himself. To just—be.

                “Want another beer?” Bruce sighed, collecting empty plates and beer bottles.

                “Nah.”

                Bruce shrugged, but when he returned from the kitchen he had a couple plates of cheesecake with bottled water instead. Clark gratefully took the water, ate the cheesecake then settled back into the couch for the last quarter of the game. He’d been with Bruce for almost three hours and nothing had happened. Everything was going so good, he couldn’t be more pleased.

                “How have you been Clark?”

                Clark looked away from the screen at Bruce. Bruce hadn’t really eaten his own cheesecake as much as he’d poked at it enough to make it look like he’d eaten it. But Bruce did that a lot with food. He’d poke at it, rearrange it, do enough to it to avoid censure over not eating. When it came down to it, Bruce really didn’t eat much. He drank about a gallon of coffee a day, but he didn’t eat much at all.

                Clark assumed Alfred stocked the protein shakes Bruce insisted on with about a thousand calories a pop just to make up for it.

                “Good. Busy. But good.”

                “Yeah? Christmas is next week. Get all your shopping done?”

                Clark felt his shoulders relax even further at the familiar topic. “Yeah. You know me, I start shopping in July. I’ve just got to wrap everything.”

                Bruce grunted, turning back to the game, “I’ve only wrapped half of my payload and I’m already dreading the rest of it.”

                “That’s because you insist on every package being perfect.”

                Bruce shrugged, “I can’t stand not doing it right.”

                “If the present is covered, who cares? Besides, the paper is going to be shredded in less than a minute on Christmas day anyways.”

                “Maybe.”

                They’d had similar conversations about Christmas wrapping for years. It made Clark smile as he tipped back his beer and watched the Knights score a touchdown with only two minutes to spare.

                “Looks like they might actually win tonight.”

                “Looks like.”

                They fell silent for the remainder of the game, which wasn’t much, and when the late-night news flicked on, Clark was standing up to leave. He was tired. It had been a long week and he’d spent a tremendous amount of time worrying over nothing. Yes, Bruce looked adorable in that Christmas sweater. And yes, his eyes looked more silver than blue with the dim lighting in the family room. And yes, Clark was also feeling a little warm and gooey in the middle because he’d spent the evening with his best friend in the whole world. But these were things Clark could note and move on from. They were things that did not mean he needed to panic and run. Not anymore. He could handle it.

                Note it. And then move on.

                Yes.

                “You want to stay over?”

                Clark blinked over at Bruce, who hadn’t moved from the sofa and was lounging like a big panther basking in the sun. “Stay over?”

                Bruce nodded, not really looking like he was paying attention. “Yeah. We could watch another movie. It’s still early.”

                Clark glanced at the mantle where a clock said it was after eleven. “I’ve had a long week.”

                Bruce looked up then, “Yeah? Tell me about it.”

                “Oh, it’s nothing really. Just work stuff. Holiday crap.”

                “Holiday crap,” Bruce pursed his lips, something like irritation blossoming in warning in the silver of his eyes, “You love Christmas.”

                “Yeah, yeah, I do, but it’s been—busy. And I’m tired, so maybe I ought to call it a night.”

                “I just thought you might like to stay over since it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other. Damian and Tim were hoping to have breakfast with you.”

                “Oh.”

                That’s what happened when you stayed away from Bruce, you also stayed away from all the others. Tim and Damian. Even Jason and Dick, who didn’t even live at the manor anymore. Clark didn’t realize how much he’d missed them too.

                “How—how are the boys?”

                Bruce shifted, leaned forward so his elbows were propped on his knees, “Good. Busy with school and looking forward to a couple weeks off. But you’re avoiding my question. Why not stay over? A month ago, you’d have jumped at the idea. I can’t count the number of nights you’ve stayed over at the manor.”

                “Bruce, you’re making a big deal about nothing. I’m just tired. Maybe I want to sleep in my own bed?”

                “In your own bed.”

                “Yes.”

                “Even though you’ve told me you sleep better at the manor than anywhere else?”

                “Yeah,” Clark was feeling a little like he was getting backed into a corner, which knowing Bruce, he probably was, “Is there an echo in here?” Bruce’s brows rose, and Clark instantly regretted getting snarky. It would only drive Bruce’s suspicious nature higher. It would only tighten the already impossibly tight tension between them, they’d somehow managed to avoid all night.

                “Sorry.”

                Bruce stood, dusting invisible crumbs from his jeans, “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for coming over. Especially when you were so tired.”

                “Bruce…”

                Bruce was looking down at his shoes, but Clark could see that he’d done something to either sting or irritate the man. He just couldn’t tell which. “Yes?”

                “I know I’ve been off for the last month, but I really appreciate you giving me the time to figure it out on my own.”

                Bruce’s gaze lifted, “Have you figured it out? Are you alright?”

                The concern in those eyes was enough to make Clark’s stomach shrivel. It was enough to make his palms sweaty and his throat want to close up because God, what he wouldn’t give to walk across the room and wrap Bruce into himself.

                “I’m still working on it. But it’s getting better.”

                Not really.

                “There’s nothing I can help with? Nothing at all?”

                Clark shook his head, “No. Nothing at all. Just—keep doing what you’re doing. You’re a great—friend Bruce. The best friend I have.”

                Bruce nodded, but didn’t say the same back. Even though Clark knew it was true. He knew it. Bruce just didn’t say things like that. He wasn’t open about declarations that led to too many gooey and possibly frightening feelings.

                It was another reason why the feelings Clark was currently harboring were such a death sentence for them. Not only was Bruce as straight of an arrow as they came, he’d been burned so many times when it came to intimacy and love, he’d made his stance clear on it long ago. He wasn’t interested. At least not in having a long-term committed relationship. Flings, hook-ups, little dalliances, those were for stress relief and his public image. But as a rule, Bruce didn’t date seriously.

                Ever.

                And certainly not with a man.

                “I uh—I had a good night. Thanks Bruce.”

                “Yeah,” Bruce nodded, sighing when Clark made his way to the door of the kitchen, “I did too.”

                Clark made it all the way to the door before he gave in and bent for a hug. Maybe it was risking a lot, a hell of a lot considering where his thoughts had been, but he needed the contact. He needed to feel the grounding sensation of Bruce’s smell in his nose, his tough lithe frame in his arms, and his warmth pressing back at him. Clark needed it.

                Bruce returned the embrace with much less enthusiasm, but it made Clark’s stomach bottom out. It made his heart scrabble up to attention and dance around like a monkey on crack in his chest. He felt so lightheaded when he pulled back to peer down at Bruce, that he almost swayed back into him. Which would have been a grave mistake.

                “We’re OK?” Bruce murmured, eyes scanning over Clark’s face, arms folding across his chest when the colder air leaked in from the door Clark was pulling open.

                “Yeah, Bruce. We’re great. Never better.”

                Bruce nodded again, but his face had gone expressionless. Which usually meant he was thinking and didn’t want you to know it. He was calculating and tallying and shredding apart data with that big brain of his. If it wasn’t so attractive it would be terrifying.

                OK, maybe it was terrifying. Straight up.

                Bruce could connect dots better than anyone. Clark could only pray that he wasn’t going to connect these ones.

                “See you next week? We could do the movie at your place?”

                Clark swallowed past the lump in his throat, braced for the look he was sure to get, then shrugged, “Maybe. I’m going to the farm for Christmas and before then, I’ll probably be really—”

                “Busy. Yes, you’ve said that.”

                “Bruce—”

                Bruce shook his head, “No, don’t worry about it. We’ll catch up after New Year’s. Holidays are always busy for the Bat anyways.”

                “OK,” Clark hesitated in the doorway, felt the desperate urge to squeeze Bruce’s shoulder, take his hand, press a kiss to his cheek, anything, then forced a smile on his mouth. “See you after New Year’s.”

               

                 

                Bruce worked nonstop over the holidays. Just as he suspected he would. After a particularly grueling night rounding up Falcone’s drug peddlers and talking a jumper off the roof of the Talisman skyscraper, the Bat had practically dragged himself home by sheer willpower alone.

                The New Year brought in gray smog filled skies, the high whine of sirens shredding the air, and the highest record for suicides in Gotham’s history.

                It had been a rough night for Batman.

                He’d torn something in his shoulder. He could feel it. It wouldn’t be the first time. But it ached and burned, a steady companion to the cuts he’d gotten beneath his chin when shards of glass had sliced him clean to the bone. He’d bled all over the suit and the car. Facial wounds tended to gush blood. When he peeled out of the armor and all the heavy plates meant to protect him, Bruce found the other source of what had been paining him—broken ribs.

                Alfred stitched up his chin, wrapped the ribs, then made an appointment with Leslie for the morning to look over the shoulder. Bruce could already tell he was going to need an MRI, maybe another godawful surgery.

                It put him in a foul mood.

                In fact, he was in such a foul mood, he didn’t think it could be any worse. Until Bruce managed to drag his ass up the stairs, filled the bathtub with boiling hot water, and then checked his phone.

                Lois Lane had texted him. She never texted him. Ever.

                Unless there was something going on with Clark.

                _What’s wrong?_

                **_Does there have to be something wrong for me to be texting you?_**

                _Yes._

                **_Fine. I just wanted to check in with you about Clark. I was a little blindsided today._**

                _Define blindsided._

                It took more minutes than Bruce had patience for, for Lois to respond so Bruce put the phone down and then _sank_ into the steaming hot water in the bath tub without even bothering to stifle the groan. It felt amazing. More than amazing. Fucking deserved after the night he’d had.

                How was Lois even awake?

                He glowered at his phone, saw that it was actually six in the morning then blinked foggily at Lois’ response.

                _Yesterday Clark agreed to going out on a date with Gregory Parkman from the Sports section. And I’m a little confused, because I thought you two were—well, together._

                There was a long moment, where Bruce just stared at the phone screen. Then his reaction caught up to his comprehension and he felt something like raw anger rush up his throat and settle like sour poison in the back of his mouth.

                It was an entirely irrational response. One that Bruce tried to temper with reason. Of course, Clark didn’t have to tell him everything about his life. In fact, Clark was under no obligations to tell him things like who he was dating and when. But he should have—

                Bruce blinked at the message again, then felt a little touch of something like alarm trickle beside the anger.

                _Wait, you think Clark and I are together?_

_**You’re not?**_

**** _No._

_**Oh…then I guess it doesn’t matter.**_

**** _I guess not. Thanks for the information._

Bruce resisted the urge to slam his phone down on the edge of the bathtub, but just barely. He sat in the tub until his skin was so pruned and red, he looked like a sun-dried tomato. When Bruce drained the tub, dried, and then crawled into bed wearing a pair of ratty sweats he kept hidden from Alfred so the old butler wouldn’t toss them, Bruce had finally managed to get his temper under control.

                So what if Clark was dating a man named Gregory from the Sports section? It shouldn’t matter to him at all. So what if Clark hadn’t told him? Or if Clark had been avoiding him? Or if Clark had shut him out about something that Bruce sensed was vitally important? Or that the last month had been an effort in self-control Bruce had never thought he’d encounter so strongly?

                It was true, maybe Bruce had been a little hurt over the last month. Maybe he’d had a few moments where he’d felt like a needy girlfriend who wasn’t getting enough attention. But that didn’t explain Bruce’s absolute and abrupt revulsion to Clark being with this Gregory. Nor did it explain the alarm he’d felt when Lois had mistakenly thought Clark was—what, cheating on him?

                They weren’t together. So, it should have been laughable. Funny even.

                It hadn’t been.

                His response to Clark’s dating life had been—troubling. Worse, the cramping feeling in his gut smacked of betrayal and hurt. It smacked of scorned lover. And that had no place in his relationship with Clark, whatsoever. Bruce had never thought of Clark outside the realm of friendship. Nor was he going to start.

                Clark had never, not once even so much as hinted any interest on his part in Bruce in that way. And yes, Bruce was aware that Clark occasionally dated men. They’d discussed it a time or two over the years. Bruce had never been with a man before, but it didn’t mean he’d never been attracted. Because he had. He’d just never done anything about it.

                Bruce rolled to his side, squeezed his eyes shut and then blew out a careful breath. He needed to let this go. He needed to not obsess like he’d been doing nonstop for the last five and half weeks.  He forced his mind to empty and his body to go lax. He forced himself to not think about Clark or Gregory or the way Clark had been pushing him away.  

                Even still, the worries and the thoughts and the anger followed Bruce into his sleep.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, ya'll are going to get these chapters in lightning speed because the muse is strong with this one. So, happy Monday and enjoy another chapter. I've got another I'm going to post tonight, because, why the hell not? :)

                Clark prepared for his first date with Gregory like he would any other.

                He tried not to compare his ritualistic shaving, showering, and primping to the same things he’d done before his dinner with Bruce and failed. They were pretty much identical. Only the feelings he was experiencing while getting ready were quite a bit different. If he wasn’t exactly enthusiastic when Gregory showed up right on time with a handful of daisies in tow, Clark told himself, it was just because he actually wasn’t fond of daisies. And Gregory didn’t know that. How could he? They were only acquaintances from work.

                He still put the flowers in water in a vase while Gregory stood at the door and rocked on his heels. Clark still lied and said how pretty they were and thoughtful it was to bring them.

                Gregory took Clark to a family owned Italian restaurant with buttery bread sticks and too big of serving sizes. The table cloths were red checkers and the music filtering through the air was Frank Sinatra. It was just the sort of place Bruce wouldn’t have picked. So that made it perfect.

                Clark was elbow deep in spaghetti and meatballs, listening to Gregory talk about how March Madness was going to be a killer but that he was looking forward to it when he realized he was actually bored. It had been a long time since Clark had gone on a date and been bored.

                The little devil on his shoulder reminded him that anyone other than Bruce, would probably be found wanting. Anyone. Which was probably very true. No matter that it stung his pride and made him feel just on the wrong side of irritable.  

                Gregory was a nice guy. He was attractive. Not as attractive as Bruce, no, but who could be? Bruce was the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. Gregory was a little shorter than Clark, had chestnut hair and honey eyes. He was cute. He had dimples. He was safe and warm and everything Clark should have been attracted to, because it could be really great if he wanted it to be. After a few dates, Clark could probably even work himself up to asking Gregory over for a night, maybe they’d make out on his couch to some b-rated horror movie and then they’d shift the party to the bedroom.

                Clark’s stomach cramped a little at the thought.

                “What about you Clark? You got any big projects coming up?”

                “I’m sorry?” Clark wiped his mouth with his napkin, embarrassed he’d been zoning out for the last five minutes.

                “Work. Do you have any big projects coming up?”

                “Oh. Nothing like March Madness.” That earned Clark a dimpled smile. “But Perry said he wants me to cover the Humane Society Gala in Gotham in a couple weeks. So that should be interesting.”

                “That’s a big event.”

                Clark nodded, poking at his spaghetti. It _was_ a big event. One that happened every year and was always, without a doubt, hosted by the Wayne family dynastic trust fund. Bruce would be there. Wearing a tux, draping himself on any woman that would allow it, which all of them of course would, and pretending to drink copious amounts of alcohol. Bruce would look debonair and would sound like a flaming prick.

                In previous years, Clark would always come to the event dateless, and after all the obligatory peacocking and sloshing of alcohol, Bruce would slip away, and they’d go to the roof. They’d sit quietly beside each other, looking out over Gotham, listening to the heartbeat of the city and they wouldn’t need to fill the space with talking. Because they were comfortable with each other. And because after a night spent talking, Bruce was usually too tired to talk. So, he’d just lean into Clark’s shoulder and they’d stare at the city until one of them suggested they grab something real to eat.

                Then they’d usually go to some dive to get a burger and Bruce would poke at his food and Clark would inhale his. Bruce would always order a vanilla milkshake though. And that, he’d eat.   

                Clark had been avoiding thinking about it too much. Mostly because it made him feel a bit like being trapped inside a box with no air. Panicky and absurdly emotional. Depressed.

                “Tell me about your family. I’ll admit I don’t know much. Aside from the little bits that float around the office.”

                Clark forced himself to refocus on Gregory. His eyes were burning, and his throat felt tight. He needed to stay in the now. He needed to make this work. “I’m from Kansas. Midwestern boy, through and through. I grew up on a farm.”

                Gregory smiled, “I’ll bet that was nice.”

                “It was. I’m an only child and I go back as often as I can to see my folks. What about you?” Clark needed to reciprocate. He needed to try and tease out information too and be a willing participant.

                “I’m the youngest. I’ve a couple older brothers who live in Chicago. That’s where I’m from. My whole family actually.”

                “Let me guess,” Clark smiled, “big Italian family?”

                Gregory chuckled, “Yeah. Did the restaurant give me away?”

                “No. It was just a guess. The food is good.”

                “My uncle owns this place.”

                “Really?”

                Gregory nodded, tipping back his coke with a happy smirk marking his mouth. At least Gregory seemed to be enjoying himself. Clark was absolutely not going to feel guilty about the fact that he was working on stifling another yawn. It wasn’t Gregory’s fault that he’d only agreed to this date to try and get over Bruce. Besides, given enough time, Clark was almost certain that Gregory could only become more and more interesting. More attractive and funny and—he swallowed thickly, looking down at the table to steady himself through the roll of his stomach.

                He wasn’t hungry anymore.

                Gregory didn’t seem to notice Clark’s withdrawal, because he slipped his hand into Clark’s and Clark let him. Gregory had smaller hands than him. But they were nice hands. Wide palms and long fingers, a few callouses. Clark wondered if the callouses were from physical labor of some kind, a hobby, or from his love of sports. Weightlifting maybe?

                He couldn’t quite see it.

                They walked a little after dinner. Holding hands and chattering about the chinook in Metropolis that was warming the usually quite cold January winter. Clark didn’t mind the constant chatter or how Gregory was alright with filling all the spaces. Clark was usually the one to fill in the gaps in conversation, so it was nice just to let go—and not think.

                When Gregory drove them back to Clark’s apartment, there was the almost painful tug of anticipation clinging to the air. Clark knew that Gregory was going to kiss him. He could have stopped it. He could have shrugged off the wanting look in those teddy-bear brown eyes. He really could have. But part of Clark wanted to try it. He wanted it to work. He wanted to not think about Bruce and how wrong all of this felt or how he didn’t want to be here doing any of what he was doing at all.

                Gregory tasted like the wine they’d had at dinner and red sauce. He kissed quietly, just a shade chaste, but with feeling. Clark let the kiss deepen, did nothing to stop Gregory from winding a hand into his hair, to tug their mouths more firmly together.

                When Clark started to pull away, Gregory was very respectful and let him. Would Bruce have? Would Bruce kiss like that, all soft and patient and polite?

                Clark hoped not. Clark didn’t think he would.

                Clark would never know.

                “Can I see you again?’

                Clark blinked back to Gregory and found the man looking flushed and a little dazed. His pupils were big and dark and he was breathing a unsteadily. Clark felt entirely unaffected, which should have made him feel guilty or at the very least, worried. But that wasn’t the case. Clark was feeling numb. Like nothing mattered, as long as he was doing his best.

                And this was his best, wasn’t it? Gregory was a good man. The perfect man actually, for someone like Clark. Everything he should want.

                “Yes. I’d—like that.”

                _Wrong_. His mind whispered the word like fingernails on a chalkboard. It made gooseflesh rush up over his arms and legs. It made him want to run.  

                “I’ll call you.”

                “Alright.”

                Gregory leaned in, pressed another kiss to Clark’s mouth that lingered, and Clark forced a smile on his lips when he waved Gregory off.

                It was a nice date. Really.

                If Clark stayed in the shower a little longer and scrubbed his skin a little harder because he felt just a tad dirty—there was nothing wrong with that. If Clark laid in the dark and thought of silver eyes and black hair and a smart mouth that he’d never taste—there was nothing wrong with that either. Because he was moving on. He was.

 

 

                Bruce gave in and researched Gregory Parkman. A little.

                How could he not?

                He was doing it to look out for Clark. There was no ulterior motive other than to look out for a friend. Besides, Bruce kept the search to a minimum. Gregory had no criminal record, he’d graduated from LSU with honors and seemed to take his career in sports rather seriously. The youngest of three, Gregory was a family man and visited his folks in Chicago every other month. He played city-league basketball, went to the gym four times a week, and liked to stock Bud Light in his fridge for when he had company.

                Bruce _didn’t_ dig deeper than that. He could have. In fact, Bruce felt like he’d been fairly vague in his studies and that if anyone knew the sort of restraint he’d used, anyone, say maybe Clark—they might have even been proud that he’d managed to stop himself.

                Clark made no mention of dating Gregory. Bruce waited for him to, but Clark was silent on the matter. Which was either comforting or really rather insulting. Bruce couldn’t decide which. Besides, even if Clark had been avoiding him, the Humane Society Gala was in three days and Bruce was certain he’d see Clark there. They could catch up after the party, share a wedge of pie or something, and then Clark would probably tell him. Maybe he was waiting to share with Bruce because he wanted to do it face to face.

                Clark was old-fashioned like that.

                Three days later, Bruce dressed in his tux, dabbed bourbon on his neck and wrists like cologne then strode into the party with the Brucie veneer firmly intact. He wore it like a shield.

                A couple of hours in, Bruce finally spotted Clark. He could recognize him from his height, let alone the breadth of those shoulders. But it was the way those shoulders hunched in, trying to look smaller, that really did it. The slightly curled black hair that brushed the collar of his jacket—showing how Clark needed a trim. Mild-mannered reporter who was just a touch sloppy and a whole lot sweet. But Clark was a lot more than that.

                Bruce strode across the ballroom floor, was stopped by a few glad-handing society types, but made it over to Clark with very little mishap. It shouldn’t have felt like being able to breathe again, when Clark turned and stared at him. It shouldn’t have felt like drowning at the same time either, when Clark’s eyes skated down his frame then over his face before holding on his eyes.

                “Bruce Wayne. Long time no see.”

                “I could say the same to you Kent. It’s been a long time since I saw you at one of these events.”

                Clark smirked, “I usually don’t cover this sort of event. As you well know.”

                “Ah, well, I guess we should be glad to have you tonight.”

                “Yes,” Clark mused, absently smoothing a hand down his tux, likely looking for his trusty notepad and pen, “Have you—”

                “Bruce Wayne?”

                Bruce knew the voice, the face, the familiar outline in his periphery, because he’d studied it. Because he’d spent the last two weeks pouring over the data like his life depended upon it, though it absolutely did not.

                He’d just not expected to see Gregory Parkman at Clark’s side—wrapping an arm around Clark’s waist—smiling brightly at him, like he was the happiest, luckiest son of a bitch in the joint. That was why Bruce’s heart had dropped to his toes and his mouth had gone desert dry. That was exactly why.

                It was just a shock. A surprise.

                “Pleasure,” Bruce forced the words out of his fat lips and didn’t look at Clark. Couldn’t, actually. “And you might be?”

                “Oh, sorry, I’m Clark’s plus one. Gregory Parkman. And the pleasure is all mine. I’ve heard about how big this Gala is and how great of a party you can throw, but wow. This is something else.”

                Bruce nodded, carefully keeping his eyes on Gregory’s, “Yes. I do love a good party.”

                “Yeah,” Gregory’s grin grew wider, “I’m a little star struck. When Clark asked me to go as his date, I didn’t even have a tux.”

                Bruce felt Clark stiffen, felt the tension shimmering between them like a physical living creature and stifled the urge to turn and go. That would be cowardly, worse, it would say things that weren’t true. That weren’t true at all. It would send the wrong message. Bruce was perfectly happy for Clark, no matter that this felt a little like being slapped upside the head by a big bag of ice.

                “Well, you look—wonderful.”

                Gregory blinked at him, then chuckled as his cheeks pinked, “Thanks Mr. Wayne,” he turned to Clark, squeezed with that hand around Clark’s waist, “You want another drink babe?”

                Gregory was speaking to Clark. Calling him babe. Bruce didn’t realize his hands had gone into fists and that he was struggling to control his breathing until the roaring in his ears completely blocked out whatever the hell it was Clark was saying back to Gregory. He needed to go.

                Now.

                Any plans he might have had at keeping up the false imitation of peace, vanished. He couldn’t do this. He hadn’t realized how much he couldn’t do it, until right then. Right when Gregory had called Clark 'babe'.

                Bruce said something about needing another drink himself or a bit of fresh air, then stumbled away from the pair. He made it all the way out the ballroom doors, down the hall and to the men’s room without notice. No one stopped him. Everyone just assumed that he’d drank too much and was probably about to be sick.

                They’d be right, to some degree. Bruce _was_ about to be sick.

                He barricaded himself in the last stall, the biggest one, and promptly lost the meager contents of his stomach. It was a small mercy that Bruce hadn’t had any appetite for a few days and hadn’t eaten anything before coming to the Gala. All that came up was acid. And his pride.

                He should have known that Clark would follow. He really should have.

                Still, Bruce was stunned into shamed silence when Clark came quietly into the restroom and stood beside him while he tossed water over his face and neck.

                “You alright?”

                Bruce shrugged a shoulder, “Sure. Bad seafood or something.”

                “You’re not even trying to lie well.”

                “No.”

                Clark shifted, his dress shoes scuffing on the polished marble floor and Bruce finally let himself look at Clark. Really look at him. It was a mistake, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

                Clark was wearing his tux, the one he’d saved up and bought a few years previous and dusted off for events like this. Black hard lines and tailor-made edges, crisp white undershirt with pearl-faced buttons. He looked so at home in the fabric, no one would ever know that he preferred cotton or flannel. That he liked jeans and socks and slippers. He liked to change into sweatpants almost immediately when he got home from work. That Clark was a creature of comfort and lounging whenever he had the chance.

                “What’s wrong?”

                “I—” Bruce swallowed thickly, looked away and found a spot of soap dolloped on the counter to stare at, “It’s nothing for you to worry about. It’s my problem.”

                “Bruce, you’re my friend. I care about you.”

                “Are we?”

                Clark frowned, his eyes never having looked so blue behind the lenses of his glasses, “What?”

                “Are we friends still?”

                “What sort of question is that? Of course, we are, Bruce.”

                Bruce could feel the repressed anger he’d been doing his best to handle for the last weeks, shifting and bubbling up within his middle. It was forcing its way past the anxiety and confusion and he welcomed it. It felt better and more understandable. It made more sense to him. “You’ve hardly spoken to me in the last weeks. You’ve been avoiding as much contact with me as possible. It’s a logical conclusion to come to that we aren’t really that great of friends after all. Things change, I get that. People change, lives change. Maybe our friendship has too.”

                “Bruce, I—” Clark looked suddenly stricken, his face pale and eyes hurt, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

                “You didn’t,” Bruce said first, then ground his teeth because lying now was pointless. Especially when it was so obvious that Clark had in fact, hurt him. “You did.”

                “I’m sorry.”

                “Why? What changed? Have I done something to offend you? To put you off?”

                “No. Not at all. It’s difficult to explain Bruce. But I’ve been struggling with something and I couldn’t do it with you. I needed space.”

                Bruce sucked in a breath, frustration coloring everything in shades of crimson. He wanted to lash out and hurt Clark and though it wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, it was absolutely unwelcome. “Yes, apparently. You needed so much space you forgot to mention you’d started dating someone.”

                “I—what?”

                “Never mind.”

                “No, no. You don’t get to spit out shit like that and then backtrack. What’s your problem with Gregory? He’s a good guy.”

                “I’m sure he is.”

                “Bruce—”

                “You didn’t tell me about him,” Bruce knew his voice sounded hard and unrepentant. That it also had traces of betrayal. He just couldn’t seem to eradicate it, “You didn’t even mention it. Not once. How long have you been dating? How long have you been interested in him? Is it serious? You’ve never brought someone to the Gala before. These are the sorts of things friends, supposedly best friends, share with one another. But you’ve cut me off. You’ve shut me out and I have no idea why.”

                Clark was gripping the edge of the counter, his knuckles whitening, “I don’t have to tell you everything in my life.”

                “I didn’t ask you to.”

                “I like Gregory. He’s funny and attractive and interesting.”

                Bruce held perfectly still, made himself breathe, made himself blink. “Yes. I’ll just bet he’s perfect for you. Just the sort of man to make you happy.”

                “Are you seriously jealous now Bruce? About someone else making me happy and being in my life?”

                “I—” God yes, Bruce was terribly, viciously jealous. And it made him want to go back into that bathroom stall and throw up all over again. “It isn’t—I don’t think—”

                Clark’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open. “Oh my God. You are. You’re jealous. Jesus Bruce.”

                Something like hot shame was rushing up Bruce’s collar and into his cheeks. His skin felt like it was prickling on every nerve ending. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I said anything. Just forget it.”

                Bruce made a move to sidestep Clark, to leave, because this was spiraling out of control and he’d done enough damage for one evening, but Clark’s hand was one his bicep holding him in place and it wasn’t a nice hold, it was painfully firm.

                Bruce’s gaze jerked up to Clark’s, “What are you doing?”

                “Holding you still. Because the moment I let go, you run. You always fucking run when it gets ugly and things get just a bit too feely for you.”

                “Let me go.”

                “No,” Clark was breathing fast, his eyes narrowed in what could only be described as anger. It made Bruce’s pulse rush to match it. “Not until we work this out.”

                “OK. Fine.”

                Not fine. Bruce wanted to scrabble to free himself, he wanted to kick out, hurt Clark. Anything. He never liked being made to heel and Clark was well aware of that fact. And besides all that, there was heat building in his chest, rushing down his legs and arms, making him feel perilously close to something wicked and dark. Something like—want. Clawing feverish want. And it terrified him.

                He’d not felt like this before. Ever. 

                “I can date, whoever I want, whenever I want.”

                Bruce nodded slowly, “Yes.”

                “And you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to be territorial about me just because we’re friends. Just because we usually share everything doesn’t mean that’ll always be the case. And you need to be alright with that.”

                “I’m not—”

                “Bruce.”

                “Fine. I won’t be territorial. I’m fine with you not sharing. It was a mistake.”

                Clark’s brows rose, but his face was flushed, and his eyes were still angry. “We good?”

                Bruce’s stomach clutched, rolled, somersaulted. He wanted to kiss Clark. He’d never wanted to kiss Clark. It would only take closing in a couple inches. He and Clark were almost exactly the same height. It would be easy to just lean in.

                He’d never kissed someone as tall as him. He’d never kissed someone he loved like this.

                God, he was _in love._ He didn’t just love him he was in love with him.

                All the ugly little lies he’d been telling himself, all the buried feelings and the emotions, and the fears. They were surfacing too fast for Bruce to deal with and the panic was so severe, he couldn’t think. He couldn’t even move.

                “Bruce?”

                “Clark I—” Bruce swallowed, forced his eyes up to Clark’s and opened his mouth to say what he wanted because it was eating him alive and he’d never realized how fucking hungry he was before but now he was starving, and he wanted Clark to—

                The bathroom door opened, and an older gentleman strode in, lifting a brow at the two of them. The insanity of what Bruce was about to do fell with a sickening plop between them. It was sobering enough to rip Bruce from his trance.  

                Bruce immediately tugged his arm free and backed up.

                “Bruce, we still need to talk.”

                Bruce shook his head, “No. Not really. It’s fine. Go back to your date. He seems really great.”

                “Bruce—”

                Bruce was out the bathroom door and back into the crush of guests before Clark could finish the sentence. Clark didn’t follow him. He didn’t try to stop him or talk to him or follow-up on what the hell Bruce just almost did. He went back to Gregory’s side and the two of them had a couple glasses of champagne. Clark laughed and smiled and even shared a few kisses with Gregory. It was like dying inside to watch it—very, very slowly dying.

                 Bruce went to the roof alone after he couldn’t stand breathing the same as air as so many others any longer. He stayed up on the roof until his fingers went numb. It was the first year in five years, Clark didn’t come to join him.


	4. Chapter 4

               Time was a peculiar thing. It had a mind of its own. Like fire, it was a moving, liquid creature that wasn’t controlled by anyone. Nothing could stop it, morph it, change it. It just went on—plugged forward, ever onward without any censure or oversight.  

                Time was a cruel thing.

                It was unfeeling and unrelenting. It forced the seasons to bended knee and the young to grow old. It made love grow stronger and friendships grow weaker. It was the fourth particle, the other sentient thing that no one remembered to curse.

                But Clark was all too aware of it. It had been six weeks, three days, four hours and twenty-three minutes since the Gala. That was the last time he’d seen Bruce. It was quite literally the last time he’d laid eyes on the man.

                And not for lack of trying.

                Bruce hadn’t been coming to JLA meetings. He’d claimed he was busy. He said he had things going on. Bruce always had something going on, didn’t he? It was of little comfort to realize that Bruce was doing the exact same thing that Clark had done to him. He was distancing himself while keeping up with the very thin façade of friendship via brief emotionless phone calls and dry paper-thin texts.

                Clark was still dating Gregory, had actually grown to have a certain fondness for the man, though they’d not graduated to having sex. Nor would they. Clark didn’t have it in him to go that far. Not when his heart wasn’t nor would it be ever be in it. He’d have to break things off soon, because he was realizing that dating Gregory had been a mistake in and of itself. Dating Gregory made his feelings and his loneliness more acute.

                Dating Gregory had been the beginning of the end.

                Actually, Clark mused sourly, as he stabbed a fork into his Rice-a-Roni supper with angry relish, him falling in love with his best friend, had been the beginning of the end. _He_ was the destroyer in his own twisted hell. _He_ was the one who’d caused this.

                No part of his life had been unaffected. The team members of the JLA offered furtive glances, whispered behind their hands, but no one asked what was going on between Clark and Bruce. No one dared rock the boat. They were too afraid of Batman’s ire and the repercussions of that ire.

                Clark’s mother had tried to ask him about how he and Bruce were doing, as if she couldn’t ask about Clark without asking about Bruce too. As if they were an item. As if everyone had always just assumed they were a couple. It was the knife being twisted, the salt in the wound. And why wouldn’t everyone assume? Clark and Bruce were inseparable. At least, to outside prying eyes. Inside, they couldn’t be further apart. Inside, they were the Roman empire collapsing in on itself.

                And it was all Clark’s fault.

                The events that transpired the night of the Gala had been nothing short of unsurprising. Of course, Bruce had snapped and started snooping and had gotten himself all twisted and confused. Of course, Bruce had gotten defensive and angry with Clark. Clark had cut him off. Clark had been acting strangely. Clark had been doing his damndest to hide his feelings, that perhaps he should have just admitted from the very beginning. Even if it meant their friendship ending. Because they didn’t have much of one to speak of at present, did they?

                Clark had picked the wrong method for dealing with his emotions and like some pre-pubescent teen, he’d started dating another man just to get over the one he really wanted. Which was not only selfish to someone as nice as Gregory, but it was absolutely confusing and obviously hurtful to someone like Bruce. Who thought if you kept what your favorite color was from him—you were trying to be deceptive and/or out to get him.

                The look on Bruce’s face, that panicky frightened look in his eyes, had been a kick to the gut. It had felt like everything he’d deluded himself into believing, that all those inches of distance between them, were for nothing. Less than nothing.

                He’d hurt Bruce. He’d scared Bruce. He’d done everything he’d set out _not_ to do.  

                He was back to square one. No—worse. Negative ten to the square of one. He was drowning in a bed of his own making. And Bruce wasn’t speaking to him anymore. Bruce had all but run from him. Bruce had thrown up in a public restroom, accused Clark of not caring about him, about not caring about their friendship anymore and Clark had done a piss poor job of refuting any of it. Clark had been too stunned and then angry, more at himself than anything to do much more than act like a caveman and manhandle Bruce.

                His behavior had been abominable.

                He’d texted as much. Left voicemails with apologies. Bruce had accepted all of them. Said everything was fine. But hadn’t asked him over to the manor again.

                Nor did Clark suspect he would, anytime soon.

                Clark was roused from his supper by a knock on his front door. For one utterly ridiculous moment, he actually thought it might be Bruce. Then he heard the heart on the other side, the one that was about twenty beats a minute faster than Bruce’s. He smelled the Polo cologne and the scent of Thai food take out.

                And reality came crashing down around his shoulders.

                He didn’t have the heart to let Gregory know he’d already eaten. So, he hid the dinner he’d reheated from the fridge before answering the door, then pretended to be surprised.

                “Hey,” Clark smiled, “What a nice surprise?”

                “Yeah?”

                Clark nodded, returning the press of lips that Gregory offered and stepped aside. Gregory knew Clark’s apartment well enough now and he moved towards the living room with the takeout and started filling up those spaces of emptiness between them with his steady string of recounting daily events. He kept talking through the six o’ clock news, and Clark nodded at the appropriate points, ate the food, and ignored Gregory’s hand on his knee.

                An hour later, the hand on his knee had become a problem and it was inching steadily upwards as Gregory did his best to appear nonchalant. He’d moved and was pressing into Clark. Clark felt a pang of remorse, of guilt, but did his best to stifle it when Gregory kissed him. He’d let it get this far, he could let Gregory have one more evening before Clark blew the lid off things and hurt him, couldn’t he? He’d been the fool to get involved in the first place. He’d been the cruel one, so he could allow Gregory this tiny moment. Just for now.

                Gregory was good at kissing and Clark’s skin was starting to get warm, not warm enough, but it was nice and it felt good. His hands were deft and though they shook a little Clark pretended not to notice. Until the kiss started to go a little deeper and those hands were prying at the buttons on his shirt and Clark could more than just feel how much Gregory wanted him, he could see it.

                There was a small flare of panic in his middle and along with it, the realization that he’d messed up. Again. He never should have let Gregory get this far. He never should have let the kiss go on at all.

                “Wait,” Clark pushed a little and Gregory was slow to respond, too drunk off feeling. When he sluggishly pulled back and stared at Clark, his eyes all trust and want, Clark felt like scum. Worse than scum. “I uh—I don’t—”

                Gregory blinked, backed up further, “Oh.”

                “I’m sorry.”

                “No—” Gregory was blushing furiously now, trying to fix his hair, “No it’s alright. It’s fine.”

                “Gregory, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

                “You didn’t. It’s fine. We can wait a little longer. I’m good with that. I can be patient.”

                Clark wanted to shrivel into the couch and die. He had to do this. Now or never. He couldn’t keep pretending this was going to get any better. It wasn’t. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

                “What? Ever? You mean—you don’t want to have sex?”

                Clark swallowed thickly, looked at the carpeting and forced the words out, “No. I don’t think we should.”

                “Wait—wait, wait,” Gregory’s voice sounded pinched as the realization started to dawn on him, “Are you breaking up with me?”

                “I—” Clark shrugged helplessly, “Yes. I am. I’m sorry. I just can’t keep doing this. You deserve better than this.”

                “Wow.”

                “Look Gregory, you’re amazing. And I’ve had such a good time, but I shouldn’t have gotten involved with you when my heart was already elsewhere. I thought I could—”

                “Stop. I get it. I just—please stop.”

                Gregory looked a little sick. Clark _was_ a little sick. He’d never had to break up with someone before. Actually, now that Clark thought about it, breakups in the past were usually mutual or he was the one being dumped. This was awful.

                “I’m sorry.”

                Gregory nodded once, pushed to a stand, then went to grab his coat. He didn’t say anything else before slipping out the door. Clark didn’t move until he heard the latch click into place.

                When the apartment fell silent again and all that remained was the steady click and whir of the clocks in his living room and bathroom, Clark realized he was shockingly close to tears. He was ashamed of his behavior. Emotionally drained. Worn to the bone. Needy and desperate and depressed.

                He couldn’t have stopped himself even if he’d tried.

                He needed to hear Bruce’s voice. Even if it was just his voicemail.

                Clark turned off all the lights in his apartment, changed into an old Metro U t-shirt with a big hole on the seam then climbed beneath his quilt. He sat in the silence until it felt like his ears were bleeding, then he called Bruce.

                _“Hello?”_

“Bruce?”

                _“Yes—were you expecting someone else Clark?”_

Clark smiled, not caring that Bruce sounded sour and agitated with him already. Not caring that this phone call would probably be far too short. “No. I just—I needed to talk to you. To hear your voice.”

                It was a weak thing to say. Clark didn’t care. There was a pause and it was long enough to make Clark close his eyes and drift a little. Then, _“I’ll always be here for you Clark. Whatever you need.”_

“You mean that?”

                No hesitation this time. _“Yes.”_

“Even if I said come over right now? Come over and pretend we haven’t been fighting for the last few months?”

                _“I—don’t—”_ a long drawn out breath, _“Yes. I would come over. Do you want me there?”_

Clark chuckled, and it came out watery. “No. It’s enough to know you would.”

                _“Clark, we’re going to be fine.”_

“I don’t know about that Bruce. It doesn’t feel very fine right now.”

                _“How would you like it to look, so it would feel fine?”_

“I don’t know. I fucked up Bruce.”

                 A pause, a stuttered heartbeat, a wobbly indrawn breath.

                _“How?”_

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose, “It’s too much to explain over the phone.”

                _“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”_

“You’ve been anywhere else but where I am for the last six weeks, Bruce. That’s because of me, because I fucked up.”

                _“No—Clark—that’s not—”_ Bruce sounded like he was pacing on the other end, like he was wound just as tight as Clark. _“I can’t do this.”_

This was it.

                _“I’m coming over. We need to talk.”_

“What?” Clark sat up quickly, swiping at his damp cheeks, “right now?”

                _“Yes. Now. I need to talk to you.”_

“We can do that over the phone. Bruce, I’m already in bed. Don’t come over.”

                _“I’m coming. Ready or not. I’m coming. I don’t care if you are in your goddamn whitey tighties, I’m coming.”_

“I don’t wear those.”

                Bruce laughed, and it sounded frantic and not the least bit humorous, _“I’m well aware.”_

The line went dead, and Clark stared at it like it might amalgamate with his hand and then bite him.

                “What the hell have I done?”

               

 

 

                Bruce got into Metropolis at close to two in the morning. He’d officially broken. Gone mad. Lost his marbles. What have you. He was a desperate man with desperate intentions and a desperate drippy bleeding heart that had told him it was now or never. Now, or never he needed to step up and say what he was thinking. Before he lost Clark forever.

                Clark had sounded so shaken on the phone. So upset and heartbroken. And Bruce had at once wanted to fix it, plug all the holes, sew up the gashes, whatever it took to make Clark right again. A broken Clark, was not one he wanted to feel guilty about for the rest of his existence.

                So, he drove all the way to Clark’s apartment. He trudged up the cigarette stale corridors and forced one foot in front of the other until he was standing outside Clark’s apartment shaking like a leaf.

                He didn’t knock. Not this time.

                He had a key and Clark knew he was coming. Still, Bruce felt naked and strange when he stepped into all the familiar warmth and colors of Clark’s apartment and felt a strong wave of homesickness roll over him. He’d not seen the inside of this place in far too long.

                “Clark?”

                “Here, Bruce,” Clark was sitting in the living room, all the lights off, in the dark like some vampiric overlord assessing his coven. It was pitiful.

                “I’m sorry it’s so late.”

                Clark shrugged a shoulder when Bruce came to sit beside him on the sofa. It took a few minutes for Bruce’s eyes to adjust to the poor lighting and for Clark’s image to be more than just grainy whites and blacks. He wouldn’t be able to make out much in the way of facial expressions, but maybe that was for the better. Maybe that would help him get it out.

                “Why did you call me?”

                Clark shifted, the couch squeaked, “Because I wanted to.”

                “You said you needed to hear my voice.”

                Clark snorted, “Is that so hard to believe? You’re my friend. I used to lean on you harder than anyone.”

                “Used to.”

                “Yes. I fucked up, Bruce,” Clark’s head was angled towards him. His voice sounded wrecked. “And I’m sorry.”

                “You said that, but you didn’t explain. Explain now. Help me understand.”

                Clark turned and was facing him now, but Bruce could only see the outline of his nose and jaw. The perfect lines they made. “I pushed you away and I ruined things. I thought I was protecting us. I thought I was saving us. But I killed things.”

                “Protecting us from what?”

                “Me.”

                “Clark—”

                “No, no listen. I know you came over because you want to fix things. And I do too. But I’m not sure we can. Not after you hear what I have to say. And I want you to know, that it’s OK. You don’t have to feel badly for not wanting to be friends anymore after tonight. You don’t have to say anything or explain. I’ll understand. Because it makes sense.”

                “ _You’re_ not making any sense.”

                Clark’s hand found his, grabbed on hard and sent thousands of butterflies into Bruce’s stomach.

                “I will. I—just give me second. I just want to sit here with you, without the big ugly I’m about to drop and just—soak it in,” Clark’s voice sounded tight and strained, on the verge of tears. It did something awful to Bruce’s chest. “I’ve missed you.”

                It was no hardship to admit the same. It was easy. “I’ve missed you too.”

                Clark stroked the back of Bruce’s hand with his thumb and the butterflies in Bruce’s stomach melted into heat. He wanted to confess now, to lay it all on the line but the quiet was so nice. The silence between them without the anger or the tension. It felt incredible. So, he said nothing as he silently savored every second and waited for Clark to start first.

                “It started to happen months ago. Probably long before that. But I only noticed back in November.”

                Bruce held very still and waited. He listened to Clark’s breathing, steady but shaky and wished he could hear Clark’s heart too.

                “First time it happened, was at the gym. You were training Barry. And you were covered in sweat and guzzling down water like your life depended upon it. And it hit me soft. Not super hard, or fierce, just a niggling feeling in my gut. I put it aside, I did my best to pretend it wasn’t what it was, but it kept happening. At your house, in the kitchen, before Christmas. You leaned into me to get a glass of water.”

                Bruce closed his eyes, “You choked on a cookie.”

                “Yes. Then I sat on the love seat instead.”

                “I thought I had bad breath.”

                Clark laughed, squeezing his hand. “You didn’t. Quite the opposite. And then, I almost kissed you.”

                Bruce jerked, and Clark kept going, squeezing the bones in his hand too tightly, sounding like he needed to get it out before he ran out of air or the world ended. Maybe both.

                “I almost kissed you in the cave when you were leaning over the microscope. I wanted to so badly. And it frightened me, because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship, but it was becoming a little too clear to me that I had feelings for you that were outside the norm. That maybe I’ve always had feelings for you, that were stronger than friendship. And I knew that you couldn’t feel the same way. That you wouldn’t be interested, so I did my best to end things. I did my best to stop the feelings in their tracks, but I think it was too late. I think it was always going to be too late from the moment I met you.”

                “Clark—”

                “Please, Bruce. Please let me finish. Let me get this out. I need to.”

                “But I—”

                “Please.”

                Bruce fell silent and bit his tongue till it bled.

                “I realized I was in love with you and have been for quite some time,” the confession was light as goose feathers, fluttery and warm between them. Fragile. “So, I started dating Gregory. And it was a terrible mistake. I never meant to hurt you by pushing you away. I was trying to get a handle on my feelings. I hope you can understand that. I hope in time, maybe you can forgive me. Maybe we can find a way to be around each other, despite what I’ve told you. Despite you not feeling the same way.”

                Clark stopped talking, Bruce forced air in through his nose, out through his mouth. Tried to get a handle on how fast his heart was racing and pulsing in his eyelids, his mouth, his chest. It was like standing under the drumming power of a waterfall. Clark’s words—were so good, so welcome—they hurt. They made him want to curl up into the fetal position and groan.

                He’d been such a fool. The silence between them was deafening until he finally spoke.

                “Dated? Past tense?”

                Clark made a choked noise, “What?”

                “Are you still dating him?”

                “No. I—I broke up with him. Today actually. It was why I called. I was feeling like a shitty person and wanted my best friend to help me wallow. Why does that matter? Why do you even care about Gregory? I just—I just told you I was in love with you. I just poured my heart out and all you can seem to focus on is who the fuck I’ve been dating?”

                “Yes,” Bruce hissed, scooting closer to glare more thoroughly at Clark. That pulse in his throat was like a war drum, urging him to go faster, speak more quickly, say his piece. Clark confessed, it was his turn. Now or never. Do or die. “Yes, that’s all I can focus on. Because that’s all I care about. I have no real feelings whatsoever about my best friend being in love with me.”

                “Bruce—”

                “No, no. My turn. Why do you think I came over here tonight?”

                “To make things right between us.”

                “Very good. That’s exactly correct. How did you think I was going to do that? I wasn’t expecting a confession like this from you, so how did you think I was going to fix things?”

                “I—Bruce could we not do this—I—I’m feeling a little raw and honestly, on the verge of sort of breaking down because of how humiliating this all is—”

                “God, damn you Clark!”

                Clark flinched.

                Bruce shot off the couch and started pacing, because he was angry with Clark. Yes, angry that Clark hadn’t said anything, until now. Until the feelings between them were at a fever pitch and so fucking strained he wanted to snap. Clark should have said something months ago. God, come to think of it, Bruce should have too. The fury he was feeling wasn’t merely aimed at Clark—but himself.  

                “Bruce I can’t do this.”  

                “Yes, yes you can. Just sit there and listen closely. Because I have a little confession to make myself.”

                “What?” Clark’s throat was working, his hands fisting on his sweatpants’ clad knees.

                “Somewhere between you deciding to cut me off as some sort of sacrifice to the Gods and that Gala where I saw Gregory drooling all over you, I realized I was in love with you too. And not the ‘I love my best friend, he’s the coolest man I know’ sort of love or the admiring kind or the platonic kind. It was the ‘I’d like to fuck my best friend and if I could, I’d have his babies’ sort of in love. Are you following? Is the picture getting clearer for you?”

                “Bruce, my God, I—”

                “No,” Bruce snapped, body so stiff it felt like his muscles were going to cramp. He’d been holed up for weeks in the manor, terrified of confronting Clark. Terrified of his own feelings but also furious with Clark for having the gall to be with someone else. Anyone else—but him. And now that he knew that Gregory had only ever been a show, had only ever been someone else to get over his feelings, Bruce wanted to strangle Clark. “I’ve been driving myself mad for weeks. Worried about breaking you and Gregory up when you seemed happy. In between wallowing at my own stupidity and feeling like I should stomp down your door, you’ve been silently in love with me right back. And saying nothing! Nothing at all. You’ve just been letting me suffer, letting me stew, and using that poor schmuck.”

                Clark should have said something. He could have. Over and over. All the times Bruce thought he’d done something wrong. Or Bruce was concerned over Clark’s health, like the emotionally stunted caveman everyone said Bruce was. God, it was mortifying. He should have known. He should have seen what was happening and recognized the symptoms in himself. Let alone seen the obvious with Clark. And now that he knew, now that he looked back, it had been blatantly obvious.  

                “Bruce—I thought you—I never knew—I,” Clark was standing too now, just staring at Bruce, eyes wide and startled. Bruce didn’t know whether to start laughing, crying, or running. He was heavily considering turning around and bolting. “I didn’t think you liked men.”

                That stopped him.

  
                That—confused him and took the anger right out of his sails.

                “You thought I didn’t like men.”

                “No. I thought you were straight. In fact, I was certain that you were.”

                “Clark, that’s ridiculous. You know I’ve had attractions to men off and on throughout the years. I thought everyone knew.”

                “No,” Clark strode over to the far wall, flicked on a lamp crossly, then scowled fiercely at him, “No, I did not. I had no idea. I was under the impression, since you’ve only ever been seen with women, that surprise—you only liked women. I know, crazy. Plus, you’ve never not in any of the years we’ve none each other, brought up the fact that you like men. Ever.”

                Clark made an excellent point, albeit, a bit useless, given their present circumstances.

                “Well,” Bruce licked his dry lips, then looked at the floor, “you’re not, entirely wrong. I’ve never—”

                Clark’s brows climbed to his hairline, “You like men. But you’ve never been with one.”

                “Well, I’ve never had enough incentive before. Not till you.”

                “I see.”

                “You sound like you don’t at all.”

                “Can we get back to the part where you said you wanted to fuck me and have my babies? Because I’m feeling pretty stuck on that tidbit.”

                Bruce shifted, felt his cheekbones prickle with embarrassment then shrugged, “I—I could have said that better.”

                “I rather liked how crass it was. It was more believable than if you’d tried to go the soft gooey route. Much more you.”

                Bruce snorted.

                “Did you mean it?”

                He blinked up, narrowly assessed Clark who’d moved closer and felt a thread of anticipation and panic lance his stomach. “Yes. Why else would I have said it? Why else would I be in your apartment at almost three in the morning doing any of this?”

                “So, to get this clear, and as black and white as possible, you are in love with me? Romantically speaking?”

                Bruce swallowed roughly, “Yes.”

                “And I am in love with you. Romantically speaking, so we’re clear on the matter.”

                Bruce’s clothes felt too tight and his skin was feeling hot. Far too hot. And maybe he was breathing like he’d run a marathon and his heart was so fucking loud in the shells of his ears he couldn’t concentrate. He figured it was excusable. The situation was extreme enough to warrant this sort of physical response from him. But Bruce didn’t think he’d ever responded quite so fiercely before—to anyone. It was like having been a vegetarian his whole life only to realize, what he really needed, was meat. And that he really, really, liked meat. A lot.

                “Bruce, I’m going to kiss you now. Is that alright?”

                Clark was standing in front of him, no more space between them, just scant inches. Bruce could feel the heat of Clark’s skin through his clothes, could feel it threatening to suffocate him and for some reason, he wanted it. He wanted to be suffocated by the heat and the strength and the liquid fire that was seeping into his bones, making him feel weak and shaky. He wanted it badly.

                “Y-yes.”

                Clark bent, pressed his mouth to Bruce’s and Bruce held perfectly still. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. Clark’s lips were warm and dry and soft. Gentle.

                It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.

                Bruce was aware of the soft groan that slipped from his mouth before he surged forward, but he couldn’t stop it. He needed Clark. He needed skin and heat and that mouth tight to his own. So he took it.

 

 

                For a man who’d never kissed another man, who’d never been attracted enough to another man to even initiate contact, Bruce was all over Clark. He kissed like he trained. He kissed like he fought. With wild and frightening focus. With lips and teeth and tongue and strong punishing hands that grabbed on for dear life. And Clark loved it.

                Clark was drunk off of it. Clark was—lost. Lost in Bruce and the kissing and the touches that weren’t soft or worried about hurting him.

                Bruce loved him. Was in love with him. All the worries and fears. For nothing. If his brain wasn’t literally leaking out of his ears, shorting out any rational ability to think clearly, Clark might have spent more time marveling about that. He might have spent more time reveling in it.  

                Bruce was fire and Clark was his fuel. And they burned together so hotly it felt almost overwhelming, almost too much. Bruce’s hands were somehow under his shirt, skating over ribs and back, digging at the muscles. Clark pushed them to the couch, stumbled a little on the way and crushed Bruce into the cushions a little too hard, if Bruce’s grunt was any indication. Bruce didn’t slow much. Not much at all.

                It was a free for all and apparently, they were going to be racing to the finish line. Clark figured they’d do slower later. They could savor on a different day and really get to know one another’s bodies—

                “Wait, Bruce—” Bruce was sucking a bruise into his neck, fisting a handful of Clark’s hair, “Wait, Jesus Bruce. Wait a second.”

                For all Bruce’s control, all his training and his rigid walls, Bruce looked like a man who’d snapped from his chain and didn’t want to be put back on. He growled, actually growled at Clark, before collapsing back into the olive-green cushions, his expression absolutely black.

                “What? What could possibly be more important right now, Clark?”

                “Bruce,” Clark had to stifle a smile, because it would not be a good time for that, “You’ve never done this before.”

                “No, does that matter?”

                “Well, yes and no. We should take this slow.”

                Bruce stiffened, and Clark could feel it because they were flush from hip to chest and then Bruce locked his gaze on the ceiling. “I see.”

                “Don’t do that. Don’t you dare suck back in and hide from me. It’s too late for that.”

                “I’m not hiding. Get off me.”

                Clark shook his head, “No.”

                “Clark,” the hiss was meant to be a threat, but it failed entirely when Clark could see the blush flooding Bruce’s face and neck. Stripped bare, thrust into the spotlight of love, Bruce Wayne was more attractive than ever and extremely vulnerable. More than he’d ever allowed himself to be in front of Clark before. It was humbling.  

                “I want you Bruce. Don’t mistake that. Ever. But you’ve never done any of this. You’ve never even kissed a guy before.”

                Bruce closed his eyes.

                “Am I wrong?”

                “No. But that doesn’t mean I’m some blushing fucking virgin Clark.”

                “You are when it comes to men.”

                “Oh my God, I might kill you.”

                “Bruce,” Clark started kissing Bruce again, mouthing at his jaw, then trailing wetly down Bruce’s neck till the tension there started to melt, and Bruce was arching up into the contact, little sighs breaking the seam of his mouth. “Just,” another kiss, “take it,” one more for good measure, “slow.”

                Clark wanted so badly to do this right. To make sure that Bruce was happy and that he really didn’t live to ever regret this. He needed to be ready for something like that, really ready, without the hormones making all the decisions. Did that make Clark a little traditional and a whole lot gentleman? Absolutely. He didn’t care. Bruce deserved to have his first time something special and well thought out. Because make no mistake, this _was_ Bruce’s first time and there was something to be said for that. A certain amount of sanctity in it.  

                “I’m not going to change my mind.”

                “I hope you don’t.”

                Bruce blew out a long, aggravated, breath, “So, does that mean you want to send me home? Or should we break out a chastity belt for good measure?”

                Clark laughed, he laughed so hard he was shaking the both of them until Bruce started laughing too. Any moment Clark’s neighbors were going to start banging angrily on the walls. “You are so salty when you don’t get your way. I love you.”

                Bruce’s arms had snuck up behind his neck and were looped there. “It’s hard for me to say that back. Even though you know it.”

                “It’ll get easier, the more you say it.”

                “I doubt it.”

                Another battle for another hill, for another day. Clark was too happy to have Bruce in his arms like this. It felt unreal. It felt like any moment, he’d wake up and this would have been a cruel dream meant to torture him further. He didn’t want it to end.

                “Wanna make out some more on my bed till we fall asleep? I’m exhausted.”

                Bruce answered him by kissing Clark firmly. As far as answers went, it was great. More than great.  


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and following this one guys! It was fun. As Christmas is next week, I'm going to say Merry Christmas too!! Hugs!
> 
> Feel free to follow me on Instagram @gavinconroy_author

                Moonlight curled in through the drapes and cast the vertebrae of Bruce’s spine in sharp repose. Each inhale, each exhale, was a symphony of musculature, bone and sinew. Silvery scars and soft warm skin. It was hypnotic. Clark could lie still in the dark of this bedroom and just watch Bruce breathe for hours. Being this close, being allowed to share the intimacy they’d reveled in the last weeks, had felt a little like dreaming.

                Like maybe, one day, Bruce would wake up, roll over and ask what the hell Clark was doing in his bed. Clark had never felt more open and vulnerable than he was in these moments, counting Bruce’s breaths, cataloging the small bones of his spine. Everything became narrowed down. He only heard Bruce, only felt Bruce, only smelled Bruce. The intensity of the love and feeling in his chest, was overwhelming. Nothing like he’d imagined it and yet everything he could have ever wanted.

                The power that gave Bruce was—frightening. Clark imagined that was how it was for anyone who was well and truly in love. The kind of love that lasted a lifetime. He and Bruce hadn’t spoken of anything nearly so deep yet, but every time they made love, every time Bruce gasped his name in the throes of passion, Clark felt it.

                This love between them, was forever. There was no going back. There was no forgetting what Bruce sounded like when he was lax and soft from spent hunger. Or what he looked like first thing in the morning, grouchy and puffy faced. Or what he smelled like, fresh out of a shower with water still clinging to his skin. Or what he felt like, all sinew and velvet coated steel—warm and more delicate than any of his imaginings. Better than all his imaginings.  

                Clark could never go back. Ever. 

                Clark didn’t need as much sleep as Bruce, so it was nights like these where he let his mind drift and worry over the well-worn edges of a future with the man he loved. The idea that Bruce was fragile and human and _his_ now.

                In every way. At least, for now.

                Clark trailed his fingers down Bruce spine again, watched Bruce arch into the touch like a cat and smiled. Bruce would be angry at the description, but he looked beautiful like this. Adonis, naked, sated and vulnerable.  

                “Why are you awake?” the words came out slurred and sleep-drunk. Adorable.

                Clark’s hand hesitated at the base of Bruce’s spine, just above where the sheets covered him. “I can’t sleep.”

                Bruce made a humming noise, eyes opening to slits to assess Clark, “Why?”

                “It’s fine. I’m just awake. Go back to sleep.”

                Bruce blinked a few times, then rolled to his side, peering up at Clark with his brows drawn low. “Is there something wrong?”

                “No, Bruce, really. I just don’t need as much as sleep as you and sometimes—” Clark resisted the urge to fidget. “Sometimes I lay awake and I just—savor. I just listen and touch and enjoy you.”

                “And there isn’t anything bothering you? Keeping you awake?”

                “No. Absolutely nothing.”

                There was a moment where Clark thought Bruce almost believed him. Or at the very least, would let it go.

                “You’re lying.”

                “Bruce—”

                Bruce glared, rather viciously considering it was close to four in the morning and he had sheet marks on his face. “Tell me.”

                “I just—we haven’t talked about—” Clark did _not_ want to be one of those people. He didn’t want to demand that Bruce figure out their future in just the few weeks they’d been together. Of course, it was assumed that they were exclusive, that much he felt confident in. But the rest, would probably be too much too soon. It could frighten Bruce away. It could shatter the peace and delicious quiet that they’d been enjoying. “It’s nothing.”

                “Clark.”

                Clark lay back into the slick silk and covered his face with an arm. “The future. We haven’t talked about it. I think about it. That’s all.”

                “I see.”

                Clark risked a study of Bruce from beneath his elbow and found Bruce watching him closely, his eyes as steady as a silver lake untouched by ripples. But still soft, infinitely soft beneath the flow of moon-drenched light. He didn’t look upset. He looked—thoughtful.

                “I just—I want you.”

                Bruce snorted, “I’m well aware.”

                “Not just that way. Though—that way too.”

                “What would make you happy Clark? What would put you at ease?”

                Clark bit his lip, “I don’t know.”

                Bruce didn’t appear satisfied with that answer. He shifted restlessly, smoothing his hands down the sheets as if to straighten them. “You already know that I—I love you.”

                Clark smiled, “Yes, you’re getting better at saying that.”

                Bruce merely grunted, looking away.

                “When I wake up sometimes and it’s quiet and just us—I get this ache in my chest. It aches so badly that I—I hurt.”

                The stillness in their bedroom was absolute. Not even the brush of the breeze drifting in through the open windows seemed capable of disturbing it.

                Bruce’s eyes were luminous, depthless, all-knowing. “Me too.”

                “Yeah?” Relief flooded Clark, made him feel lightheaded.

                “Yeah.”

                “I want it to last Bruce. I want this to last between us. Forever. And I know that it sounds whimsical and maybe a little foolish, because there will be obstacles and there will be problems and fights but I love you more than I’ve loved anything. And that’s a little frightening sometimes.”

                “Yes, it is.”

                “I guess, I just want to know how you feel. About the future. About us.”

                Bruce was silent. So silent, Clark felt the pulse of fear in his stomach return, like a living creature.

                “You want a promise.”

                “I—” Clark shrugged helplessly, struggling not to backtrack now that they’d gone this far. It was too soon for this. He knew that. But he hadn’t been thinking clearly and Bruce would have found out anyways, because he always did. “Yes. I think I do.”

                “This promise, does it need to come in the form of a ring?”

                A bolt of something solid and electrical shot through Clark and he stiffened, “No. It doesn’t. I’m not saying not ever—but—”

                “Shhh,” Bruce had somehow been sneaking closer throughout their discussion without Clark’s notice because now he was pressed into Clark’s side. His skin was hot on Clark’s, and welcome, oh so welcome. “I understand.”

                Clark expected the kiss, because Bruce had gotten very free with them since they’d started this. He did not expect the shuddering words in the kiss. The promises laced into Bruce’s lips as he pressed one after the next, after the next, to Clark’s lips and jaw. His eyelids, nose, and chin. No part of Clark’s face was left un-christened by Bruce’s kisses.

                Cherished. That’s what he felt.  

                Clark was drunk off the kisses by the time Bruce pulled back and smiled softly down at him with pupil-blown eyes. All the gray was gone, and he looked like a particularly handsome shark. Clark didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all. In fact, all the blood in his body was deserting his brain and moving very quickly south.

                “Clark Kent,” Bruce’s face was deadly serious, “I promise to love you forever. Till death do us part.”

                Such a promise was not to be taken lightly. Bruce meant every word.

                Clark closed his eyes. Breathed slowly to stem the emotion rushing under his skin, threating to spill over and failed. There was a calloused thumb brushing one of his cheek bones, swiping away a stray tear that had no business being there. But it would go without speaking. Bruce would never chastise him for it. Bruce loved him. Would love him forever. Because he promised. And when Bruce made a promise, it was forever.

                “I wasn’t sure—I didn’t think—” Clark’s throat was so tight, it hurt to speak. Bruce kissed him again, sank them deeper as he did what he did best and spoke more without words. _Forever, Always, MINE._ It took Clark a moment to catch up, for his body to do what he wanted it, but then Clark was kissing back, swallowing a groan from Bruce that made Clark’s toes curl.

                “Bruce, Gods Bruce—I love you.”

                Bruce blinked blearily at him, lust glazing his eyes, but didn’t appear to be capable of speech anymore. Clark took advantage. In a breath, he rolled, and had Bruce pinned into the mattress beneath him, skin on skin, hear to heart.

                It almost was enough to undo him right there.

                Bruce was such a good lover. Such a passionate and kind one. Clark had never really known what to expect, had never realized how sweet the Bat would be when he was stretched out and needy, but Clark would never get enough of it. Never.

                “Forever Bruce,” Clark murmured, nibbling at Bruce’s collarbone, skating a hand down that flat stomach to trace all the scars that he had already memorized. “Till death do us part.”

                Bruce sighed, arched up into Clark’s kisses, wound his hands into Clark’s hair to tug him up, face to face.

                “When you’re ready, we’ll get married,” Bruce said between kisses, biting at Clark’s lips, “Seal the deal.”

                Clark stopped, stared at Bruce for far too long. Bruce stilled beneath him, suddenly, all the warmth and fluidity was gone. He was unsure of himself and dropping his arms which had wound around Clark’s neck and Clark forced himself to recover. Forced himself to speak past the blinding joy swarming in his chest.

                “Say it again.”

                Bruce visibly swallowed, his pulse so fast, Clark could see it was bounding in his neck, “We could get married. If you ever wanted to Clark. It’s not a big—it’s not a big deal if that wasn’t something you were looking for.”

                “It is. I want it. I want to marry you.”

                Like warmed wax, the lines in Bruce’s forehead smoothed, his mouth tipped, and he jerked Clark’s mouth back to his. “Be sure, Clark.”

                “I’m sure.”

                Clark grabbed Bruce’s wrists, put them above his head and then laved Bruce’s throat with more kisses, savoring that rushing pulse as another promise, another love note. Bruce groaned, immediately responsive, wrapping his legs around Clark’s hips, closing his eyes and surrendering completely to Clark. Clark knew he’d never do this with anyone else. Hadn’t in fact, done this for or with anyone else. Not like this.

                He loved this man. He would never stop.

                It was no small miracle that Bruce felt the same. Love like there’s, love that burned every obstacle and wound into the roots of their friendship so deep it could not be excised, was rare.

                “Marry me Bruce,” Clark murmured, already intoxicated off Bruce’s skin, almost too far gone to speak, “Marry me.”

                “Yes,” Bruce managed. He was flushed and bowed up, his eyes so dark, the pupil had gobbled all the color. Yes, was a pretty word then. A simple word. But it was honey in Clark’s ears. It meant forever.


End file.
